


Every Morning, Every Night

by orphan_account



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Domestic, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If he put his ear to Armie’s stomach, he knows he’d be able to hear it roiling. If he leant against Elizabeth’s chest, he’d feel the baseline of her heart.





	Every Morning, Every Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Servem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servem/gifts).



Timothée doesn’t have any recollection of waking up; but he knows he’s awake, and he knows, with calm certainty, that it’s the witching hour. It was something Pauline used to hiss at him, when they were little and she thought her few extra years of life made her an authority on all things. _Go back to sleep_ , she’d whisper knowingly, _the witches will eat you if they know you’re awake._

He could not believe there were witches in New York, but in quiet, ancient France, where the night-time was infinitely darker and the world seemed infinitely bigger--there, he could believe it.

There is no old magic in LA. Just a constant electrical current, the low, warm buzz of cicadas and street lights. Still, tall palms lining the roadside, churning away internally, splinters and sap; the low sewers gushing under every sidewalk. A hive of activity, and none of it visible.

If he put his ear to Armie’s stomach, he knows he’d be able to hear it roiling. If he leant against Elizabeth’s chest, he’d feel the baseline of her heart. But both of them are quiet, near-silent breathing, the occasional shift against the soft bed-sheets; against each other.

Carefully, as smoothly as he can, Timothée lifts up the light duvet and slips out of bed. Pads slowly to the dresser and pulls on a pair of boxers, a faded tee - it must be Armie’s, baggy under his armpits. He remembers first being invited into the master bedroom, the master bed, Armie desperate to undercut the significance with a joke. “The dress code is non-existent and non-negotiable,” he’d said, and when Timothée looked quizzical, Elizabeth had explained in a loud whisper: “We tend to sleep naked. Just in case.”

Politeness makes him dress to wander the house. He could use the en-suite, but he thinks his body wants to amble instead of just pee, so he shuffles down the hallway to the family bathroom. Grey tile, fluffy towels, freshly laundered. A plastic _Frozen_ cup with Harper’s fat kid toothbrush. Several pairs of slippers, differing levels of tatty, stashed under the vanity.

Timothée does his business and washes his hands slowly, the faucet barely dripping so the noise wakes nobody. He looks at himself in the moonlit mirror. His wild hair and untamed eyebrows, a smattering of stubble struggling to assert itself over his top lip and on the crest of his chin. His cheeks are sleep-flushed, and there’s a hard line from his left cheekbone to his jaw where the pillow creased into his skin. He scrubs at it for a moment, uselessly.

Timothée wonders how he got so lucky. Not in the way he often thinks, anxious and intrusive, but a calm, genial sort of awe. He really does feel lucky, and half-awake, at this dreamy liminal hour, he can take that for what it is.

Back down the hallway, slow. He pauses outside Ford’s nursery door, just enough ajar to listen to his even breathing for a second.

“Daddy?”

Harper’s soft, sleepy call comes from the other side of the hall. Timothée’s drawn at once, wheeling round on his heels and creeping up to her door, still quiet, even if someone’s awake with him.

“Only me,” he whispers, hoping she’s not too disappointed; but she pushes her weary arms up, her hands making little grabbing motions. He’ll do.

He sits beside her bed for a while, leaning on his arms at the side of her soft mattress. She’s always liked his long hair, easier to play with than Armie’s, thicker than Elizabeth’s. Drowsily, Harper pulls clumps of it into her fists, pulling it up like meringue peaks, giggling as it flops over again. He has a poor singing voice, especially crackly when he’s trying to keep quiet, but he sings her the song his father’s aunt used to hum when he and Pauline were restlessly young: _Dodo, l’enfant do_. She smiles at every _dodo_ , the word funny to her. But his low rumble is enough to drift her back to sleep.

He stays a little longer to make sure. Gently extricates her fingers from his hair. Kisses her forehead before he leaves; scratches his chin, an embarrassed tic. He’s desperately fond of the kid, and isn’t sure how much he’s allowed to be. Isn’t sure if he’s allowed to sing her lullabies, lull her to sleep, like she’s--like she's his--

“You know she thinks the world of you,” Armie had told him once.

“Oh sure,” Timothée shrugged. “Like an uncle, y’know?”

Armie had rolled his eyes, and shared a knowing sort of grin with his wife.

His feet meander him back to their bedroom, careful and slow. There’s no need to be, he realises. Low, pleased murmurs from the bed let him know, a little guiltily, that Armie and Elizabeth are awake, if only just: the wet noises of lazy kissing, shuttered breath, little gasps and huffs; loving laughter. He wants to be in there with them immediately, not even stopping to strip down again. There’s a quiet part of him that still tells Timothée he’s an intruder, that the guest room is free, the spare bed turned down and waiting--

\--but it’s an easier voice to dampen now.

He crawls back into bed, his knees pressed up against the backs of Armie’s thighs, and leaves a kiss on his shoulder, just to say _I’m here._

Armie rolls over at once. His big hand on Timothée’s leg, sliding up and through his boxers, cupping his ass briefly, spreading on the small of his back, tangled enough to pull Timothée’s knee up between them, snorting laughter. Armie’s grinning, dozily, and his bottom lip is pink from Elizabeth’s tender, biting kisses. “Where’d you go?” he murmurs, his mouth on Timothée’s as he talks.

He tried so hard not to disturb anyone’s slumber; yet only Ford is sleeping on. He wonders if they’re that in tune, as a family; they can sense each other’s consciousness, drawn to one another like magnetic poles.

 _That’s dumb,_ Timothée thinks. Warmed by it anyway.

“Ran away with the witches,” he replies before he can think to stop himself. An old in-joke with his sister that’ll mean nothing to Armie.

But he’s good at rolling with Timothée’s nonsense. “Hard-pressed to find any witches in LA,” he says, still smiling. “Kidnapped by Scientologists, more like.”

“Sure,” Timothée hums, agreeable. He likes when Armie talks and kisses him simultaneously. A low rumble against his lips, a warm vibration that he feels in his groin and his toes, as well as his mouth.

Feisty, Armie drags his fingertip down the cleft of Timothée’s backside, breezing past his asshole. “Hey, now,” Timothée says, a feint of a protest. It’s feeble; he lets himself be undressed without complaint. “You were perfectly fine without me a second ago.”

“A charade,” he hears Elizabeth sigh. “We always want you here.”

Armie grabs hold of him before he can duck away, embarrassed. Wrestles him into the nook of his elbow and rolls them both, dumping Timothée inelegantly between himself and his wife, half on top of them.

Armie’s hard. Timothée still thinks back to the very first time, Armie chagrined and apologetic on set in Crema, his dick stiff between their bare bodies, nestled against Timothée’s hip. “Fuck,” he’d muttered. “This is--unprofessional as hell--”

“Honestly, I don’t mind,” Timothée had said, as mildly as he could. It was true. He had liked the unfamiliar press of it.

“You’re so--” Armie had started, and then cut himself off, not quite ready for brutal honesty yet.

(Later, Timothée had needled the rest of that thought out of him. _You’re so much_ , Armie had admitted. _That’s all.)_

Timothée wriggles down beneath the duvet before either of them can get ahold of him. Making love, all three of them, takes more planning than a dozy late-night-early-morning allows, but they all have hands, mouths, hearts. He’s facing Armie so Armie comes first, just a kiss pressed to the base of his dick, the flat of his tongue lathing once, twice, along the underside. He can feel Armie’s belly flexing as he inhales, sharp, and wants to let him stew a moment.

Elizabeth, then. He rolls over, an awkward shuffle in a tangle of limbs, and nuzzles against her crotch, pleasantly wet. He always feels like he should apologise for touching Elizabeth without asking, and stifles the urge, kissing her clit instead, pushing the tip of his tongue against it for nothing more than a moment. He loves the clench of her thighs, anticipating. He could eat her out so easily; instead, he surfaces for air. Her cheeks are mottled pink, her eyes low and dark, her mouth in a open smile.

“You fucking tease,” Armie breathes behind his ear.

“Yes,” Timothée says simply, shrugging. He leans in, presenting his lips for kissing, and Armie can’t resist. Behind, he can feel Elizabeth brushing his long hair aside, her mouth on the back of his neck. If he dissolved, Timothée thinks, they’d be kissing each other. But they’re not. They’re kissing him.

“He’s not even going to make us come,” Armie says to Elizabeth, over the curve of Timothée’s shoulder. He loves when they talk about him like he’s not there, even if it should make him paranoid: he loves the intimacy of it, the antithesis of secrecy. “He just wanted to be _kissed_.” Armie says it like a cuss word, playful.

“Well it is late, darling,” Elizabeth replies, still flushed and smiling.

“It’s not,” Armie argues, and bundles Timothée up in his arms again, their faces close, their bodies closer, their legs vine-like under the duvet, twisted up in each other, Elizabeth too, pressing in from behind, her groin a warm spot against Timothée’s ass, her nails a faint scratch low on his belly, and he loves it, he loves this, he loves it--

“It’s early,” Armie says, his voice little more than a growl. And he puts his mouth on Timothée’s and doesn’t let him go. Could kiss him like this until dawn sneaks up on them.

Timothée wouldn’t mind.

He really would not mind at all.


End file.
